The Great Hiatus
by B A Cucumber
Summary: Sherlock 'dies'. Again ... obviously, I don't own either Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. All characters belong entirely to A.C. Doyle and the BBC "Sherlock".
1. Chapter 1

He inhaled and regretted immediately that he had. A sharp pain spread from where his lungs had been. He thought that it did not feel so different from fire, a burning sensation grabbing the whole of his body. _Spontaneous combustion_ sprang to his mind and he would have snickered at that had it not been for the terrifying pang that seemed to tear apart his ribcage. He found it almost impossible to breathe. Gasping for air he allowed his head to drop back onto the ground. The pain in his temples felt _blue_. _God_. _This was hardly bearable_. He forced his eyes shut and felt _warm_. John kept saying his name. Over and over again. John was there. He did not have to be afraid. _Sleeping time_. He would allow himself to rest. Dying felt. _Good_. His body felt numb and heavy. _So peaceful and quiet_, he thought. And then he passed out.

He came to in hospital, harsh white light blinding him. As his lashes fluttered angrily, he heard a muffled voice say his name over and over again. _Edgy_. He also felt a hand on his. _**In**__ his_. And he smiled. _I'm dead_, he thought, and, _this is not as bad as I thought_. _John_. _Must be John_. Panic washed over him when he realized that it could be _anybody_ who had taken his hand. He had to be sure. He had to _see_. Slowly he opened his eyes to the world to find his brother watching him with a frown. He looked worried and Sherlock tried to deduce the reason why. Mycroft had not shaved. His hair was greasy, his shirt and collar rumpled as if he had slept in his clothes. His skin was of the greyish complexion common in grievers. _Ah. Hospital_. That was it. Mycroft had been looking after him. Something had happened and he had got himself here. And Mycroft worried. But now he smiled his peculiar little smile. Sherlock smiled back and let his hand relax into the touch, "_My_-"

_Red_. This pain was red. He felt the fire burn his insides and numb his body. And he did not understand.

"Don't. Speak," the older Holmes reasoned from somewhere far away. _Why not speak_? _What's the matter_?

"You got shot," the man gulped and pouted disapprovingly, "Three bullets, Sherlock. _You lost a lung_. Pneumothorax and pleural effusion, they call it. Your chest will feel sore for a while. That's the _drainage_. Your breathing when you speak is. _Irregular_. That's why it hurts. _Nothing to worry about_," the wicked little smile was back in place and Sherlock's curious eyes narrowed, "Then there's the injury to your. _Groin_. Clean shot through the triangle. Torn ligament. Burst vessels. Similar to a bad case of hernia. Only that this will probably cause a limp. And then your shoulder," Mycroft paused dramatically to revel in his younger brother's reactions, "Joint's dislocated. Moving your arm might come a bit _jerky_ at first," Mycroft finished and sat back reading Sherlock's thoughts_. A limp_! And_ an odd arm_! He knew his brother could take the pain and he knew as well that he would accept the scars. But moving without his habitual smooth elegance was just not his style.

"Good to have you back, though. We _were_ getting a bit anxious. It's been two weeks after all."

"Two," Sherlock gasped. _Ah. Here we go again. Stupid_. Sherlock closed his eyes and resolved to not speak again. _Ever_. But he held on to Mycroft's hand.

It was one of the rare moments in his life in which Sherlock Holmes was glad to have a brother like Mycroft. And one of those rare moments in Mycroft's life that he was able to watch his little brother with honest concern.

"You haven't asked about _John_," Mycroft resumed after a while, "I believe that _you_ settled things with _him_?" Sherlock did not stir but his skin seemed to grow even paler.

"He's been provided for. I know it's only of little comfort, but we did the best we could," Mycroft ignored the stray tear on Sherlock's cheek, "He'll be fine."

Sherlock barely listened. He could not fight the tears. He felt weak and defeated. His own arrogance had robbed him of what had become most precious in his life. He had _lost_. And he was all alone again. His chest heaved visibly but he tried to appear as non-plussed as usual. After all, he had agreed to the bargain. It had been either this. Or his and John's death. _John's death_. It had been _that_ which made the difference. He was used to risking his life. He could never risk John's. And so he had agreed to getting shot. He had agreed to dying. _So that John might live_. Without him.

"Where-," he had croaked and Mycroft had understood. His brother was strong. He would mend. Yet, he was certain he knew what John meant for Sherlock. He was sure that their separation would leave much bigger scars than the wounds would. But he'd get by eventually. They both would.

"Italy," Mycroft said and Sherlock nodded, "not _that_ far away, is it? Place is called. Sentignano. Near Florence. Rather remote. You'll be settled into a snug _villa_. Hardly any close neighbours. One very reliable housekeeper. I'm afraid you will be travelling light. But there'll be turtlenecks and jeans at the house. _Charmingly ... rustic_," Mycroft Holmes sneered. Sherlock nodded again. Italy. Well, this wouldn't be too bad, he supposed.

"When-," Sherlock fought the terrible headache and nausea.

"A fortnight from now, I'm told. We'll keep you under surveillance. You should be strong enough for the journey by then," Mycroft stated and added, "I don't envy you. Being dead is likely to be most exhausting."

Sherlock opened his eyes and just stared, a very faint movement of his lips indication his gratefulness. And Mycroft _saw_.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock left England, nobody took any notice. There was nobody to wave him goodbye. The driver was a dutiful civil servant who had taken in Sherlock's limp, the whiff of bleach and dye, and the awkward way in which the man had eased himself down into the backseat and thought, _drunk_. _To hell_, Sherlock had thought back and ignored the man. The backseat of the car held a rucksack with all things necessary. Sherlock rummaged for a while, conscious of the curious glances the driver was shooting him in the mirror. Money. Credit cards. Toothbrush. Plane tickets. Train tickets. Keys. Change of clothes. Guidebook. Mobile phone (shabby, ill-used). Sunglasses. Dictionary. Rental agreement. Residence permit. Driving licence. Passport_. A_ _new identity_.

Huffing, he pocketed the money and identification in his leather jacket. It had obviously had a previous owner (twenty-something, student of Literature, amateur actor), but it was warm and comfortingly reminding him of John. Just like the faded sweater and jeans did. Or the boots. But maybe he had just to get used to the new look as much as he had to the new name. He gave the driver a dark stare before Sherlock Holmes became bespectacled, blond Julian Barnes.

The place was just as he had imagined it: a white house with a red roof. _Very Mediterranean_. In the big front room he found a library. Mycroft had had it fitted in. He had had one armchair and a sofa placed in the centre of the room and a desk by the window. Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and settled on the sofa kicking off his shoes. On instinct he reached out for a soft Union Jack pillow similar to the one that John had liked so much. _John_. His throat felt dry and he gulped. He should have told John. Should have left an address, but he had been afraid_. Of seeing John_? Or of John seeing him like this? After all, he was dead. He hugged the cushion and sank onto the sofa. The velvet fabric smelled of John. Or so he imagined. Sherlock curled up into a ball and cried.

Only much later did Sherlock explore the rest of his new home. Breathing as flat as he could to not send his lungs into a struggle he made his way into the cellar and back up the stairs. Lacking his usual lightness, he held on to the handrail and dragged himself upstairs and into his bedroom and luxury bath. Breathing heavily, his vision blurring and temples throbbing in renunciation, Sherlock fell against the doorway. He felt totally exhausted and cursed his body for denying its service. He knew, of course, he had to take things slowly. He felt defeated, though. Here he was now. Y_oung. Smart. Exceptional. So many problems solved_. And yet he felt stranded. _Tired. Used. Hollow. __**Alone**_. He gulped. He hadn't felt so alone since _before John_. John who had been invalided home from Afghanistan. And here _he_ was, Sherlock Holmes, invalided out of his home. _A useless cripple. Aged 32_.

On his bed he found a note from Mycroft: "Hope this little retreat will suit your needs. There's a contact number on your mobile. Good luck. Don't be a stranger. BTW I had this made. Might cheer you up." Sherlock looked at a photograph. He remembered the occasion and smirked. The past year's Holmesian Christmas dinner had been dull. Until John had suggested party games. Mycroft had taken their picture when he was balancing John on his knees during Musical Chairs, the pair of them laughing happily. Mycroft had made fun of him with this photo before. This time, he meant well. He had even had Sherlock's outer appearance adjusted to the unusual circumstances. The tall man in the photograph had fair hair and was wearing glasses. Big tears rolled down his flushed cheeks and Sherlock was confused. _Must be the shock. _He felt ashamed because he never cried, and at the same time he was indifferent to breaking the rule because it felt good to cry. _Right_. To let go of the desperate heartache that clawed at him. He sat down on the bed and stared at the photo.

Despite the silent tears, Sherlock settled in well. To the villagers, he was either a mysterious millionaire or a very young scholar studying History of the Arts. Or both. He entertained his housekeeper, who was an excellent cook, by pointing out obvious facts and he spend lots of evenings at the Caffé Quattro on the _piazza_. As the months passed, he grew to like his new look, the robust jeans, the warm polo necks, and the heavy boots. He did not miss his old life.

When his mobile sounded, he had to look for it. He did not bother too much with it. After all, he did not know that many people. When Sherlock found the phone, it was Mycroft who had texted, "You're on the 6:15 flight to Delhi. Auburn. Giuseppe is taking you to Milan. Take care. MH"

Sherlock's blood ran cold. But he obeyed. He dyed his hair and put on his jacket and the old scarf John had given him for a Christmas past and he waited for Giuseppe to fetch him.

Again nobody took any notice and there was nobody to wave him goodbye. Giuseppe was a simple-minded but friendly, round Italian who drank too much coffee and who talked too much. Sherlock ignored him. The backseat of the car held another rucksack to meet his needs. Sherlock noted the difference in baggage and rummaged for a while. Money. More credit cards. Toothbrush. Maps. Hiking boots. Sleeping bag. Guidebooks. Mobile phone (even shabbier than the other one, and more ill-used). Sunglasses. Woollen hat. Gloves. Dictionary. Plane tickets. Milan-Delhi. Delhi-Kathmandu. Kathmandu-Gongkar. Coach tickets for Lhasa. Passport_._

Huffing, Sherlock pocketed the money and identification in his leather jacket. So he was no longer Julian Barnes, but became bearded Lars Sigerson.

And Lars Sigerson spent the next two years travelling Tibet and Persia.


	3. Chapter 3

John did not believe it at first. He had tried to stop the blood shooting out from his friend's chest. There had been so much of it. His lap was soaked as well. John's mind had kept telling him it was another trick. Another fake death. He had ripped off the young man's shirt, had pulled at his trousers, ignoring any sense of propriety. There had been no mistaking the wounds. John had inspected the exit wounds, nasty, irregular tears of skin, and the blood. _God, so much blood_. And then it had started running from the detective's mouth. _Running_. Not _dripping_. It was then that John knew it was over. He had put a hand on the injured shoulder and the world had stopped.

They must have taken him away eventually. John did not remember. He was home in Baker Street when Mycroft had called.

"John. I've got bad news."

John squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of it_. Bad news_. _Of course, Sherlock had fallen into a coma_, he had thought. And he had chuckled.

"He's _dead_, John," Mycroft had said. _Just that_. John still wondered if it had hurt less if there had been more words. _John, you must be very strong now. I've got to tell you something, make sure you're sitting down. My brother's injuries were fatal_. Followed by a dramatic pause. He also wondered if it had helped if Mycroft had come to tell him in person. He doubted it.

"How?" he had asked unhelpfully, and Mycroft had told him, "Pneumothorax and pleural effusion," Mycroft kept to the facts (or so John thought), "He didn't suffer, John, at least, that's what we think." _Three bullets. Snap. Bang. There goes a life_.

Mycroft had mumbled some ineffective words of compassion and had hung up. John had just stared. He could not say how long he remained standing there. But he just stayed next to Sherlock's desk by the window and stared with unseeing eyes. Then he had _looked_.

He had taken in Sherlock's life, his books, his experiments, his collections. And the skull. _Of course, the skull. Alas, poor Sherlock_. But had John known Sherlock?

He had run a hesitant hand along the spines of the many, many books the detective had piled up on his shelves. He had wandered around the kitchen table, and for a moment he had stood outside Sherlock's bedroom. _What if it was all a bad dream_?_ What if Sherlock was tucked up in bed_? John gently pushed the door open and stepped into the other man's bedroom. It was smaller than he had expected, only holding a bed and a wardrobe. There were more books piled against the inner wall. A glass of water still on the bedside table. John sat down on the bed and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked older. _Sherlock would frown. But he was dead_, wasn't he?

Mrs Hudson had cried.

John had packed. Most things in the flat were Sherlock's. He contemplated his desk: books on medicine, some crime novels with broken spines, a calendar, his laptop, a mug, nothing fancy. There were no eccentric items, nothing with a personality. Maybe that was because he _had_ no _personality_. John gulped. Sherlock had had lots of it. _Too much maybe_. John pouted as he remembered his former flat mate. He found it hard to believe that this fantastic man had just stopped existing. _Snap. Bang_.

Then Mycroft had come and handed him Sherlock's Last Will. John had gulped and taken it without a word. The older Holmes had attempted a sympathetic smile but failed.

"My brother was very fond of you, John," Mycroft said, "You'll find his Will very much in your favour. And he also asked me to give you this." Mycroft handed him a sealed envelope, "I haven't read it. Which, in itself, is a compliment. I think I know what my brother always wanted to tell you but couldn't," the sturdy man sighed, "He left the letter in my safekeeping. Only to be taken to you after his-"

John nodded and took the letter. He thanked Mycroft who bowed almost imperceptibly and sank onto the sofa. First he unfolded the testament and could not believe it: Sherlock had left him ₤150,000 and the flat. He wished his library to be handed over to the university. His experiments were to be destroyed. John should keep whatever he wished. The rest would be taken care of by Mycroft.

The doctor shook his head and broke the other letter's seal. Leaning into the cushions, he read:

"Dear John.

I should have told you in life that you were my best friend. My only friend. I probably never admitted it because sociopaths don't do friends at all. So maybe I was wrong.

You will have read my Last Will, of course. Let me explain the sum though, John. I bought the flat soon after you moved in with me. I don't know why I never mentioned it. Maybe I was afraid you'd rather leave than share my house with me. Over the years, you paid nearly ₤63,000 on rent and bills. It's not my money to keep, so take it back, please. And do take the rest of my savings as some sort of adjustment.

When you're reading this, I will be dead. I can't tell you how I died, because I don't know. Most likely I will have been shot. Don't grieve. I know that's a futile advice. I know I would be devastated if I lost you. I now have. Get on with your life. It was marvellous to know you. Thank you for everything, John Watson.

Sherlock"

And John cried.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had been angry with Mycroft because he had given the letter to John. Sherlock had written it for _the_ emergency situation. He had wanted John to know what he felt. But Mycroft, _idiot_, had handed John the letter _without him, _Sherlock_, being dead_. What if they ever met again? How was he supposed to explain?

He had travelled Tibet and had spent some time at Mecca and Khartoum. He had learned a rather solid Standard Tibetan, and some Arabic and Anuak. He had begun developing some interest in human rights. Whilst teaching at a village school in Sudan, he had realized how privileged he had always been. He had felt ashamed enough to act on it and help. And then Mycroft had ushered him on to Montpellier. As Jean-Marc Leclerc. Engineer.

Sherlock had accepted the challenge and dedicated himself to a study on oxygen. He still missed John.

When his mobile sounded, he rubbed his eyes. Four weeks. He had hardly developed instruments for his study. This time, Mycroft had good news, "Happy to inform you about recent developments. You may come home, little brother. MH"

_Home_. Sherlock cleared his throat. Going home meant facing John. What if the other man didn't want him back? What if he had misread John's intentions?

Sherlock remembered _that night_ vividly. It was the case of the hounds. It was the weather, the infuriating drizzle that would never stop. It was the fact that they had to share a bed. It was the wine. It was the moment. It just happened. Or didn't it?

Sherlock thought of their first night together. He had woken up by a gentle caress. John, sound asleep, had innocently stroked his hair. He had watched him. When John woke up, he had been mortified. Sherlock had found this intriguing. He had asked John to do it again, stroke his hair. Of course, John had refused, so Sherlock had been stubborn and sulky, and John had given in. John's hand buried in his curls, Sherlock had fallen asleep. The next day, they had solved the case. They had gone out for dinner. They had too much wine and they had been silly. And when they returned to their hotel, they had fallen onto the bed and kissed.

Sherlock was not sure who had started it. He just remembered looking into John's blue eyes, giggling hysterically, and leaning in, his lips meeting John's in a very chaste touch.

And afterwards they had slept. They had never mentioned that night, and Sherlock could not be sure if John did remember at all. He hoped he would. As much as he hoped that John had liked it.

"Not to London. Find me a place in the country. SH"

"What about John?"

"Must think. Give me time. And don't interfere."

The place was just as he had imagined it: a white thatched cottage with a blue door, a small garden with rose bushes and apple trees, and a gate leading to his new life. In the study he found all his belongings. Mycroft had had the library moved from Baker Street. He had had the armchair and sofa placed by a cosy fireplace and his desk by the window. Sherlock took off his jacket and put it on the chair. Then he sat down on the sofa and sighed deeply. He was Sherlock Holmes again. Not Consulting Detective, but Apiculturist. He had written a lot over the past three years. He did not miss London. He was scared of it.

When his mobile sounded, he felt lost. He still wasn't sure about how to confront John. He would surely be mad at him for walking out on him. Sherlock could imagine John's words.

_You couldn't just bloody walk out of my life. You _had_ to bloody _die!

And yet he wanted to see John. He knew little of his friend's life these days. He read his blog, of course. It kept him up-to-date, but it missed out on the little things that made life interesting. Did John have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? He could have asked Mycroft, but part of him was too afraid of what Mycroft might dig up.

"Call him. Tell him where you are. M."

Sherlock knew his brother was right though he hated to admit it. He heeded the well-meant piece of advice and typed, "Not dead. – SH," "Rose Cottage. Old School Lane. Tudley. - Come," and "I miss you."

And John came.


	5. Chapter 5

He had spent Friday night in and slept late into Saturday. Another dull weekend unfolded before him and he sighed. Where had Sherlock disappeared to? His eyes took on a strange and hurt glow when he realized that Sherlock had left him. _Died on him_. _Again_.

"Damn," he said quietly. He missed the unpredictable tall man with the unruly curls, missed his sudden mood swings and tantrums, even missed the mess he created around himself while that brilliant brain of his worked away in perfect accuracy. Sherlock Holmes had been special. John wondered if Sherlock would remember him wherever he was now. _Probably not._

It was lunchtime when his mobile beeped and John heaved another deep sigh picking it up. _Work_, he thought, _something to do_, and he read: "Not dead. – SH." Then his heart missed a beat. _Not dead_. How was he? How had he been over the past three years? _Where_ had he been? Why hadn't he been in touch? What was going on?

His reason told him to be angry. Yet he felt excited and relieved. _Sherlock had _not_ forgotten him_! He smiled and shook his head in disbelief. The fantastic man had _not forgotten him_. The phone gave another beep.

"Rose Cottage. Old School Lane. Tudley. – Come."

_Oh_. John's face fell. _Of course_, he knew that trick. Sherlock had misplaced something and wanted him, John, to get it. _Pet_. _Dog_. _Doormat_. Nothing had changed. _Absolutely nothing_. Not even after resurrection.

Angrily John pressed the button when his mobile gave the third beep in a row. _What now, Sherlock_? _At_ _once_? _Could be dangerous_? _Bring the gun_? He found himself good at guessing texts and nearly fell over when he read what Sherlock had written, "I miss you."

Of course, John had taken the next train. Of course, he had walked from the station, still happy to save the cab fare. But he had reached the small cottage by 6 o'clock. He had not answered the texts, had merely rushed here. _Head over heels_, he realized and felt a bit stupid. Shy, too, like on a first date.

Sherlock had been. _Normal_. "Ah. John," he had said and John had felt lost and out of place until Sherlock enveloped him in a hug that brought their bodies closer together than would have been considered decent. _Oh yes, invade my private space_. He smelled _nice_, _intoxicating_, of shampoo and aftershave, _nothing_ _extraordinary actually_, and he was warm and comfortable and skinny and _wonderful_, and John breathed, "You're. _Beautiful_," and Sherlock said nothing but John could feel the spindly form caught in his arms mould into the embrace.

All the fitful energy he had known his friend for seemed. Somehow. To have faded. His restlessness and curiosity. Gone. As if his system had shut down. It ached John to experience this side of Sherlock but he put on a brave smile nevertheless. Sherlock noticed the awkward way in which John held him. He cursed himself for having thrown himself on John. That had been. _Spontaneous_. Unprofessional.

"Why didn't you call?" John finally managed, hoping he didn't sound too accusing.

"Too dangerous. I left messages though. On your blog. You just didn't know it was me," Sherlock had quickly typed into his smartphone and showed John his blog. John took the phone and checked the messages from _**32lonely**_.

How are you? _Not good_, John had replied.

I'm sorry.

"I'm also _**Beeswax **_and _**Freak1977**_," Sherlock added.

John scanned his folders.

Bored., You don't know HOW bored I can be., and Entertain me, _**Beeswax**_ had written, and John smiled. Out of their dialogue context the messages made sense in a totally different way.

_**Freak1977**_ had posted, I'm lost., I feel lonely., and I don't have a single friend here. I think I have reached a dead end. They all made sense now. How had John not seen this?

"Wow," John mouthed and shook his head in disbelief, "So you also read my conversations?" John remembered some quite indecent posts that he had rather not shared. To his great surprise, Sherlock blushed at this and admitted, "Actually, I was _**dark_and_curly_lady**_, too."

John groaned inwardly but could not hide a smile at the revelation. He scanned the posts and his smile widened in amazement as he read the touching declaration of love:

It's me, John.

Don't you see?

I'm your dark and curly dream.

Obviously.

Think.

I'm tall and slender.

Married to my work.

Solving riddles.

Helping the police.

Elucidating mysteries.

Really would like to see you.

London?

Obstructively impossible to meet. I'm on another continent.

Can you come and see me?

Kiss.

"It's an acronym!" John exclaimed, "How could I _not see_ that?"

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock tried and John chuckled. Then he looked up and drank in the tall man for the first time in years. His left arm hung a bit loosely by his side, and when he paced, he walked with a slight limp. There was a scar on his forehead, too.

"I know," the detective bit, "Not half the man." John shook his head, "Time goes by," _for_ _the sake of it_. Sherlock winced. John looked older. Worn and tired. He was right. Time had gone by. What if it was too late? He waved the thought off and eyed John, "What?"

"Nothing. You look. Well. Really. At peace. With. The world," John said and Sherlock huffed, "The world, John! The world has forgotten about me. Might as well forget about the world."

John recognized his friend's love of melodrama. He did not hide his amusement. Sherlock was wrong. The world would never forget about him. It would haunt him given time. And he would love it eventually. He _needed_ the danger. _He got off on it_, as Sally Donovan had once put it. _Oh yes_, John mused taking in the slender figure of his friend, long arms in his old gown and thin legs in loose-fitting pyjama bottoms. He remembered this man chasing suspects on his hunting instincts. _Oh yes, he got off on it_. _And he would still._

"_John_, I think it's rude to speculate about somebody's sexuality when they're in the same room."

"How do-" of course he knew. Sherlock smirked and looked at the shorter man, his heightened colour and the slight bulge in his trousers, very visible, his shifting and shuffling, his biting his upper lip and wrinkling of nose, "Care to join me?" At which John _almost_ did not believe his ears.

"I mean – we should. Get some sleep. I'm tired, John."

"Of course," John smiled and looked at the pale face in front. Sherlock _did_ look tired.

"I had to be so many different people. I don't know who I am anymore." John smiled at the declaration and took Sherlock's arm, "Bed then?"

The detective nodded and allowed John to lead him to his bedroom.

"Will you sleep. With me? _Here_? Sleep _here_ I mean?" The young man blushed and John nodded. He carefully sat Sherlock down on his bed and sat next to him, fidgeting curiously, "Can I see? Your scars?"

Sherlock agreed and slowly shrugged his coat off. With a sigh he also pulled off his t-shirt while John switched into doctor mode and inspected two red scars on a white back. His eyes avoided the long gash on the flawless chest. Sherlock shuddered under John's fingers, and his shoulder twitched, "Sorry. It does that sometimes." John noticed that he was blushing again.

"Spastic muscle relaxation. Perfectly normal," John said, but Sherlock sneered, "Hateful."

Then John looked at Sherlock's chest. A long scar ran down the middle of the man's ribcage. A nasty, spidery one had formed just underneath his left nipple. John suddenly realized that Sherlock could indeed have died from injuries like these. He had not just vanished from John's presence, but he had very nearly died on him. He tried to imagine the suffering but failed.

"Took half a year to heal properly. Well, _properly_. I couldn't take five steps without running out of breath at first. Lost a lung."

"Who helped you recover?"

"No one," Sherlock frowned, "Eight weeks in a London clinic. Till I was stable enough to be rushed off to Italy on my own."

John gulped and touched Sherlock's good shoulder to lean in and kiss the other man's forehead. Sherlock tensed, and John wasn't sure whether in anticipation or rejection.

"There's more, John," Sherlock pushed the waistband of his pyjamas down to reveal a scar in his groin. John caught a glimpse of pubic hair and blushed (knowing that as a doctor he shouldn't) which Sherlock noticed.

"That's what causes the limp," John stated.

"I don't limp."

"Yes, you _do_. But none who don't know you will notice," John declared, "Lie down. Let's get some sleep." _As if_!

Sherlock nodded, disappointed, and curled up facing away from John while the latter kicked off his shoes and took off his pullover. John spooned him and began stroking his hair.

"So. You _do_? Remember?" Sherlock quietly asked.

"How could I forget?" John smiled into the dark.

"What's bothering you?" John ventured, and Sherlock sighed. He dreaded to ask, "Are you still seeing Sarah?" He could have asked Mycroft. Could have inquired.

"No. That's. Finished," John admitted.

"Oh," almost relieved, "Is there someone else then?"

"No," John sounded sad, "Are _you_ seeing someone?"

"WHAT? _No_!"

"But you have. Had partners over the past three years."

"No."

"Still not your area," John's voice carried amusement.

"I _had_ offers!"

"That's good."

"I didn't take them though."

"Why not?" John was curious, but Sherlock did not answer, "Why didn't you?"

"I saw no point. My heart wasn't in it."

"Oh," John hummed, suddenly comprehending, "_Oh_! So you're saying- _no_. What _are_ you saying?"

"Nothing."

"You're not interested."

"Not in them, I wasn't."

"But there _is_ someone." Hopeful.

"There _always_ was. There is _now_." Sherlock turned to face John in the dark.

"So who is she? Or he?"

"_You_, John. It's always been you. I was hoping-"

"Go on."

"No, I'm being stupid."

"No, I don't think so. Did you just say that you saved yourself for me? Despite there being other offers?"

Sherlock did not contradict him.

"_You_. Like _me_?"

"_No_."

"Oh."

"I think I love you, John."


End file.
